


That Old Timey Music

by Maple



Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: Best Friends, Friendship, Gen, Male Friendship, Music, Musical Instruments, Musicians
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-04
Updated: 2011-04-04
Packaged: 2017-10-17 14:31:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/177850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maple/pseuds/Maple
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Joe takes Methos on a little musical adventure, and they while away some hours listening and playing, and having some good fun.</p>
            </blockquote>





	That Old Timey Music

**Author's Note:**

> This is friendship fic! Methos and Joe are such wonderful good friends, it's a lot of fun to write them having a good time together. Plus, Joe is such a fantastic musician, that I think he would know all sorts of people.

“Do you feel like going for a ride?” Joe asked Methos one lazy Saturday morning. They had just finished eating breakfast at the little café where Joe was sweet on one of the managers and were nursing their coffees long after the dishes had been cleared away.

“Sure. I’ve nothing planned for today,” replied Methos with a curious look. Joe didn’t often ask him to go for a ride. The man was obstinately independent and usually very personal. Even though they were friends, Joe’s life was sometimes a mystery. “How far are we going?”

Joe’s face revealed nothing, but his eyes sparkled with mischief. “Not far. About a hundred years,” he said casually.

Methos raised his eyebrows. “Now that’s intriguing. Are you going to tell me anything else?”

Joe shook his head. “Not yet. You drive and I’ll navigate. Deal?”

“Absolutely.”

They paid their bill, with Joe lingering in conversation with Betsy for a few minutes. Methos didn’t think either Joe or Betsy were seriously interested, but they appeared to both like taking the act of flirting to an art form.

“Let’s go,” Joe said. “And stop off at my place. I want to pick something up.”

They walked around the corner to Joe’s apartment and Methos waited outside in the sunshine, his car keys in hand. It was a cool morning, but it promised to warm up.

Joe reappeared with a guitar case in hand, and a small brown package. It wasn’t a case Methos had seen before. It was old, very old, and worn on all the edges. The styling was dated, the color was unpopular, and the hinges were made of thick metal and looked like they would last forever.

“New guitar?” Methos asked.

“No,” Joe said. “I’ve had it for a while. I just don’t play on it very often.”

They stowed the guitar away carefully in the back seat and Methos got in on the driver’s side. “Where to?” he asked Joe, who had just finished clicking his seatbelt in place. The small brown package was at his feet.

“Head out of town. North and west.”

Methos put the car into drive, and did as he was told.

The day was still bright, and the temperature was warming considerably. With the windows down to provide fresh air, it was just about the most glorious early summer day that Methos could remember in a long, long time.

The city sights and sounds gave way to the countryside. Traffic thinned until it was practically non-existent, and they saw more livestock in the fields than anything else. Overhead, a hawk turned lazy circles on an updraft.

Joe was consulting with his map and his page of directions. “Turn left when you get to the corner,” he said and squinted far into the distance, as if he could see the intersection if he tried. Methos could feel the low thrum of excitement building. Wherever Joe was taking them, he was looking forward to it. “Twinbull Road,” he added. “If there’s a road sign.”

Methos doubted there would be. They had already taken a few wrong roads, and the signs were spaced far and few between. One had to develop a good sense of direction in the way-back areas here, or else risk being lost forever. Gazing at the lush green-scape and the newly budded trees, Methos wasn’t sure he would have tried very diligently to get away. It seemed peaceful and pleasant.

“Here,” called out Joe, “turn here.”

Methos executed a hard turn and the guitar slid momentarily in the back. Joe stretched out an arm to steady it.

“Not much farther,” Joe said.

Joe wasn’t much for accurate assessments of distance, Methos thought, as it was still quite a while until they reached their destination. Their pace had slowed since the roads had grown steadily worse, but finally they turned in at a lopsided driveway and after clearing a clumped area of trees and brush, a dilapidated house and a collapsed barn came into view.

Methos parked the car some distance away from the house and turned it off. “Is this it?” he asked.

Joe appraised the buildings and scanned his directions again. “I believe it is.”

They continued to sit in the car for a long moment.

“Was someone supposed to be home?”

“Yes.” Joe slowly got out of the car. “Maybe they’d like to see who we are first.”

Methos complied and they both leaned against their respective sides of the car, and waited patiently. Methos was sure that the occupants of the area were well aware of their arrival, but just being naturally cautious. In an out of the way place like this, visitors were unusual.

“Were they expecting you?” Methos asked.

“Yes,” said Joe, “although I’d been invited to drop by some time. No particular day. But today seemed a fine time to do it.”

“It is a fine day,” Methos agreed. He’d caught a slight movement at the door, and a moment later a washed-out looking woman appeared.

“Can I help you?” her voice had a folksy-accent to it, a compilation of several regions, and it made Methos wonder how she’d obtained it.

“My name’s Joe Dawson. This is my friend Adam.” He thumbed over at Methos, who gave her a big smile. She smiled politely back. “Ames Miles Brown said I could visit him.”

“Dad said that?” She looked suspicious. “Hold on a moment.” She went back into the house and when she returned an older man was with her. His eyes were a piercing color of grey, and although he was a bit hunched from the weight of his years, it was easy to see the spry young man he had once been.

Joe had grabbed his guitar and the brown paper sack in the meantime.

“Joe Dawson,” said the man. His eyes were on the guitar. “I remember you now. Young kid interested in some old songs.”

“Yes, sir,” said Joe.

“Well, come on in, then. It’s been a while since I played them, but it’s probably about time to dust ‘em off.”

They settled in the kitchen, which had the delicious scent of something roasting in the oven, and Ames’ daughter, who introduced herself as Maggie, started to make coffee. Ames brought out a fine looking fiddle, which Methos admired. It was obviously well cared for. The sheen of the wood was glossy and rich, as if countless tunes had darkened it until it shone, burnished.

He studied Ames Miles for a long moment as the man tuned his fiddle. He was old, which answered Joe’s cryptic remark about going back a hundred years. Probably he wasn’t that old, but he couldn’t have been too much shy of it. His hair was sparse and grey, he had a stooped walk, and the usual misshapenness that occurs to those who live extraordinary years. But his fingers looked strong, and tough, calloused.

“This is one my grandpap taught us. He called it the River Mountain Rhyme, but I never did figure out why.” He launched into a bit of fiddling music that nearly dropped Methos’ jaw. The man had skill, and he obviously loved this particular song since he played it so jauntingly well. There wasn’t a sheet of music to be found, it all came straight from Ames Miles. Methos wasn’t too surprised.

He remembered when oral history was the only thing available, but it was amazing to see it in action. It brought up crowded memories of listening to other musicians, and great orators giving speeches, of being shoulder to shoulder with other listeners, of hunching forward to catch every note or word. Like he had done then, Methos reset his attention, focusing on the sound, and he absorbed it as it flowed out of the instrument.

Joe was rocking in his seat to the rhythm. His guitar lay unopened on his lap.

Ames finished the song and smiled wide. “It’s been a time since I played that, but it puts me into mind of another I think you’d like especial.” The fiddle was brought up, the bow down, and suddenly the room was full of another high-stepping frivolity of notes, each one barely registering before bowing out to the next raucous phrase. Methos couldn’t help but tap his toes. Joe looked enraptured.

“What was that one called?” Joe asked when Ames finished. The coffee was finally done, and Maggie served it in mismatched china cups. Something about the music seemed to have infused her with a bit of color, and Methos noted that she was very pretty. Her hair was actually a nice shade of mousy brown, and her hazel eyes were more green than nondescript now.

“Corn Cob Courtin’,” Maggie answered. “That’s one of my favorites.”

Joe slapped his leg with delight, and a laugh went up around the table. Ames, his eyes bright with humor and glee, didn’t pause another moment, but put the fiddle right back to work again. This time it was a tune Methos had once heard before, during his travels in the Appalachians at least fifty years ago, although it was a somewhat different version. The memories that came with it were aching–suspicious glares before finally a few strong handshakes, and the dense, scrabbling land that had never felt like home, but had called to him nevertheless.

“I know that one,” he said when Ames had finished, “Weasel in the Barnyard, isn’t it?”

Ames looked suitably impressed. He slid a glance to Joe. “Nice fella you brought with you,” he said.

“Adam knows his music,” Joe agreed. He put his hand on his guitar. “Might I join in?”

“It’d be rude not to. I was starting to think you’d never ask,” Ames said.

Maggie gave Adam a smile across the table, and he knew for a moment they were both thinking the same thing.

It took Joe a few moments to tune his guitar, and then a minute for the two of them to conspire on what to play, but then Methos and Maggie were treated to a lolloping bright tune. When they finished, there wasn’t even a moment to ask what it had been called, because Ames played a series of notes and Joe’s face lit up like the sun, and they fell into another reel together as easily as breathing.

Sometime in-between songs Maggie had pulled the roast out of the oven, and they’d all eaten. The earthy onions, carrots, and potatoes had seemed to taste of comfort and harmony, and the cold beer out of the fridge had washed it all down, just before the two musicians had picked up their instruments again. Neither fiddle nor guitar seemed to have a moment’s rest, as deft fingers cajoled out continuous merry and heartening sounds, then a few somber tones, and back again to high frivolity.

To Methos it seemed as if only a few minutes passed, but when next he came to his senses, he realized it was very late, or early, depending. Maggie gave the clock on the wall a read and then gave him a look, and he touched Joe on the elbow.

Joe paused from his conversation with Ames, taking a moment to register what the signal had meant. The disappointment in his face was clear–that time had to always march on, even in the good times, was hard to bear.

“Thank you,” Joe told Ames. He patted his hand over his heart and Ames dipped his head in response.

“You come and visit anytime,” Ames said.

“Please do,” Maggie added. To Methos’ eyes, she looked very different from when he’d first seen her. It was as if the music had rejuvenated her, had colored her back in from the pale, wan, grayed out woman she had been, and now even in the dim light of the kitchen, she was radiating with the warmth of the music, of the cooking they had enjoyed earlier, with pride at the skill her father still displayed.

As they took their leave, Methos took her hand and gave it a light kiss. “You’ve been a very gracious hostess,” he told her. “I’ve enjoyed myself immensely.” She blushed and Methos could see both the quiet beauty she had possessed as a young girl, and the steady strength she had now as a grown woman. It made him love both her and her father, and this visit with Joe, and the music they had enjoyed, more than he could put into words. He carefully tucked away this feeling, this memory, for the years to come later.

Joe passed over the small brown package to Ames. “I’ll be seeing you soon.”

“You be sure and do so,” Ames replied, his hand tight on the bag.

As Methos and Joe stomped back over to the car, Methos couldn’t resist asking, “What was in the bag?”

Joe flashed a grin. “None of your business,” he said gruffly.

A dozen guesses came instantly to Methos’ mind and he opened his mouth to press Joe on the matter. Then he stopped. Did it matter? It could be as mundane as coffee grounds, or as exotic as rare moonshine saved from the distant past, and still the magic would have been in the fleeting music they’d enjoyed, and the company they had kept.

“I guess an old dog can learn new tricks,” Joe said with a knowing tone to his voice.

Methos laughed and slapped a mountain rhythm on his thigh all the way home.


End file.
